


Fumes

by vesper_house



Series: Morning Comes [7]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce is incapable of talking about how he really feels, Clark is the sweetest angel, Fluff and Angst, M/M, PSA: don't cold turkey your meds, Smoking, dangerous abandonment of prescription drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 12:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11058753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesper_house/pseuds/vesper_house
Summary: Clark and Bruce share a pack of smokes.





	Fumes

**Author's Note:**

> I have to say this fic feels slightly OCC because Batman and Superman? Smoking? Nah. However it does seem possible that DCEU Clark and Bruce tried smoking at least once in their lives, so I just went "eh, whatevs". Not to mention that this idea has been eating me for some time now. You know the trope "sex so good you gotta have a smoke after"? This is something like that. But not really. You'll see.

Pills at night to fall asleep. Pills in the morning to wake up. Pills for panic attacks. Pills to stay focused. Pills to ease the pain. No wonder they do not work as they should anymore. Chemicals from different drugs outwear one another. This leads to inefficiency and side effects, including anxiety, slowed motor functions, increased heart rate and insomnia. Finding the right balance takes time but Bruce tends to be impatient: it is all or nothing. So he just quits taking them. All the meds, all at once.

The terrace has an open swimming pool in a shape of a narrow rectangle. Moonlight makes it look like a silver path to fairyland. Below Metropolis shines as bright as the stars. Bruce stares at the place where the Wayne Tower used to be, reaching for the sky proudly. The way his father intended. Glory turned to rocks and fog.

Breathe in, breathe out. The cigarette fills his lungs with warmth. Breathe in, breathe out. Each exhale lasts longer than the last one. It is like riding a bike. Somehow the smoke makes it even easier to breathe in, breathe out, to feel his mouth and throat, the way they work to provide air. Breathe in. It burns. Breathe out. It brings peace. The mind is once again reminded that it lives inside of a body.

It is after midnight when the door slide open. One man approaches; sometimes Bruce buys into the illusion that there are actually two people. He really likes the first one. ( _Like._ What a peculiar word.) The second one is a force that cannot be stopped... Unless Luthor is right about the green mineral.

“Hey,” Clark says quietly, careful like he has just entered a forbidden space. He is wearing a hotel bathrobe and slippers. “Mind if I join you?” Bruce gestures to the empty deck chair beside him without saying a word. “I didn’t know you smoke.”

“I don’t.” Bruce looks thoughtfully at the red hot burn as he inhales more fumes. “So what’s that?” Clark points at the cigarette, suddenly concerned. “Damn good sex,” Bruce replies to throw him off. It works: Clark smirks and looks away to hide the faint blush on his cheeks. They stare at the city lights in silence. The sky is oddly clear. If one tried hard enough, they could see Gotham’s dark shoreline in the distance, marked with the weak sign from the lighthouse. Clark probably does not even have to try. “Are you cold?” He asks Bruce after a minute have passed. “No.” That is a lie, at least partially: throughout the years Bruce has trained himself to not mind the cold. Weariness. Lost. It is better to create some distance between them right away. The moon shines with cold indifference to everything that is happening on Earth. “Can I have one?” Clark asks politely. Now Bruce is concerned: it shows in his furrowed brow but he passes the open pack of Lucky Strikes without asking, curious to see what will happen next. To his surprise, Clark picks up a cigarette and lights it up with the ease of someone who had a lot of practice. “First rule of research,” he says, “always have a pack of smokes and some cash on you. That’s how you get people to talk.”

“I agree.” _Violence helps a lot more though._ Clark does not smoke elegantly like the people from high society. Consciously or not, they usually make a show out of it. His technique is simple, quick. He does not taste the moment at all. Almost as if there was an important task waiting for him. “Have you done this often?” Bruce inquires, happy to steer the conversation away from himself. Clark takes some time to think and says: “Not really. A little in college. A lot more at my jobs. But it wasn’t because I liked it. You know, gets people talking,” his laugh is devoid of mirth. “I wanted to fit in. The kind of guys I used to work with… Smoke break was the only time when they acknowledge my existence. We were always talking about some trivial stuff but it felt good. Felt like I was one of them. Just a fella blending in.” Bruce knows everything there is about blending in and somehow still standing out. Never truly a part of something. Hollow spot in a smooth texture. “You know what, it all started with my dad,” Clark continues talking. “One day I found his smokes hidden in the barn. Ma would rip him a new one if she knew about this. I had to be like, what, fourteen or something? Anyway, I’m holding them in my hand and… I got curious. I don’t know, maybe I thought that the popular crowd would warm up to me. So I put one in my mouth, pick up the lighter and then…”

“Your mom walks in.”

“It’s like you’ve been there with me. She went out of her mind. She never screamed at me like that before. Pa shows up, looks at me, looks at _his_ smokes in _my_ hand, looks at Ma screaming. Then he goes with the typical not mad, just disappointed scowl. I was so shocked by Ma’s reaction that I didn’t even think of blaming him. Like a deer caught in headlights. Somehow he calmed her down and informed me that I’m grounded for a week.”

“Clark the boy scout, grounded,” Bruce smirks. “I find it hard to believe.”

“I’ll have you know it was the one and only grounded incident in my entire childhood. It didn’t even last for twenty four hours. Ma had some business out of town the next day so Pa took me to the Dairy Queen and got me the biggest sundae on the menu. And that’s the story about my first smoke.”

“Touching.”

“Yeah, I’m very fond of it.” Clark toys with the cigarette, examining it from every angle. “I miss him sometimes.” Bruce should let the comment slide, should keep quiet… “What was he like?” He asks, genuinely curious. For a second he thinks it was a wrong thing to ask, but then… “Good.” Clark whispers. “Loyal. Brave. The bravest man I’ve ever known. He never… He wasn’t scared of me. He had every right to be, you know. He didn’t know what was growing up under his roof. I was… I mean, sometimes I was scared of myself. But he was only scared of what the world could to do to me. I didn’t understand him at the time. Now, after everything that happened… I think I get it.”

_…weird shape looming in the sky, buildings crumbling down, ashes everywhere, that strange sound of impending doom…_

“His death was an accident. The worst part is that I could’ve saved him,” Clark’s voice stops Bruce from dwelling deeper into the memory. “But even then… He wasn’t scared. All he cared about was my secret. So he stopped me.” The cigarette gets crushed in the ashtray with a little too much force. “I’ll never forgive myself.”

Would Bruce save his father if he had the opportunity? Of course. Despite the danger, risking the secret. Anything to keep him and mother alive. To be bulletproof that night in the Crime Alley… What a difference it would make. But what if dad asked him to stay away?...

“Sorry for venting,” Clark giggles nervously, trying to hide the tears. “I probably shouldn’t have said all of that. Don’t know where it came from.”

“Don’t apologize.” Bruce gets up. He would like to offer some comforting words, the same he has heard so many times over the years. _It’s not your fault. Don’t feel guilty. There was nothing you could do. You were just a child._ None of them ever worked. “Bed?”

“Yeah,” Clark rubs his nose discreetly, or so he hopes. “You’re sleepy?”

“I think so.” Bruce’s eyelids do feel heavy. “I need to get rid of the smell first.”

“Now I know why it bothered me so much. You always smell good.”

They brush their teeth and move straight to the bed. The curtains effectively block every ounce of light from the outside. Bruce gets comfortable under the sheets, hoping for at least a few hours of sleep. Suddenly his skin prickles from the familiar feeling of being watched. “Stop staring, Kal.” A very quiet chuckle proves that his intuition did not fail him this time. Bruce opens his eyes to see Clark looking right at him. Their faces are so close it is easy to notice every detail despite the darkness. He is smiling. His hair is a charming mess of curls against the white pillow. The sharp lines of his cheekbones and jaw are mesmerizing. How could Bruce ever be scared of that beautiful young man with eyes soft like cotton? _She_ never feared. That is her greatest advantage.

Clark gently pets him on the cheek. It feels nice. Bruce’s feet are cold, so Clark brings them between his own calves. He is hot like a heather which should be annoying but is actually the best thing ever. They start kissing, light and dry, almost as if they are having a soundless conversation. Bruce drifts off to the feeling of Clark’s warm palms cupping his face. Against all odds, he lets himself believe that this is going to last forever.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> The last bit was inspired by this wonderful piece of art: https://twitter.com/cpointss00/status/830568367929094146


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